


Everyone Loves a Scandal

by metisket



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, New Jersey, charlie the skull, children and weapons, long-suffering sidekicks, pre-season 2, theft for the lulz, this may be john's favorite case ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metisket/pseuds/metisket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Retelling of <i>A Scandal in Bohemia</i>, in which Sherlock meets his match and John laughs and laughs.</p>
<p>
  <i>If John had known they were in for celebrities today, he’d have made more of an effort to, well, put on trousers, for one thing.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone Loves a Scandal

**Author's Note:**

> First posted December 2011, just pre-Season 2.

John is reasonably sure that nothing Sherlock could throw at him at this point that would truly catch him off guard. Body parts, inexplicable broken glass, toxic chemicals; all within the bounds of normal. John considers himself well prepared. Or at least he did until this morning; he should have known better than to underestimate Sherlock. Nothing in _life_ has prepared him for staggering downstairs, half-awake and in his dressing gown, to find a supermodel sitting in his favorite chair.

And she is unmistakably a supermodel. A Czech supermodel—Milena Novak, to be precise, which John knows because Milena Novak is the most gorgeous actress-and-model ever to have been born in Europe, possibly in the world. She’s wearing track pants and a hoodie, she has no makeup on, she evidently hasn’t brushed her hair today, and she’s still absurdly beautiful.

John wonders if Sherlock’s drugged him with something, and he wanders, dazed, into the kitchen to make tea. This will all be easier to take with tea.

“You say she has tapes,” Sherlock asks _Milena Novak_ , for God’s sake, sprawled in his chair with his fingers steepled. “Nothing digital?”

“She always says, ‘You cannot hack a tape.’” Milena smiles fondly, which takes her beauty to new heights of absurdity. “Ah…I apologize for asking, but…who is…?”

“Oh. John?” Sherlock waves dismissively at John without moving his eyes from Milena. “Don’t worry about John.”

“But who is—”

“I said don’t worry about him. John, have a seat.”

John grabs his tea and sits, reflecting on Sherlock’s amazing lack of interest in wealth, fame, and unspeakable beauty. Single-mindedness is a scary thing sometimes.

Milena Novak eyes John dubiously. He doesn’t blame her. If he’d known they were in for celebrities today, he’d have made more of an effort to, well, put on trousers, for one thing.

“John. This woman has had an affair with an American opera singer named Irene Adler, who has tapes to prove it. What does Ms. Adler want from you?”

“If. If this became public, my husband would be…very unhappy.” Milena squirms uncomfortably, which conjures up intriguing mental images. John privately decides that he could see his way to not minding too much, if he were the husband. “Irene wants to ruin me. Not money, nothing like that. She’s angry.”

Sherlock leans forward, staring intently. “Why?”

Milena squirms again. She really needs to not do that. “I’d rather not say.”

“Of course,” Sherlock murmurs, settling back. “Your father.”

Milena makes the time-honored horrified client face. “How did you—”

“I’ll take the case.” And with that, Sherlock leaps up and heartlessly herds the most exciting thing in John’s world down the stairs and out the door, voice drifting up after them. “Don’t contact her. I’ll text you tomorrow with news. Goodbye.”

He slams the door and bounds back up to the flat, beaming triumphantly at John.

“We just had a supermodel in our flat,” John says, still not quite believing in this.

Sherlock rubs his hands together gleefully.

“She was wearing a hoodie and track pants,” John persists.

“Her sad notion of a disguise.” There it is—scorn for non-geniuses everywhere. But then the glee bubbles right back up again. It’s starting to terrify John a little, that glee.

“What are you so happy about?”

“Irene Adler. I never thought I’d meet her. London isn’t her usual hunting ground at all.”

“You know her, then.” Of course he does.

“Know her, no. I would’ve thought everyone knew _of_ her, though. Really, John. She’s a famous opera singer and a suspected thief.”

“Right—wait, what?”

“She always has more money than her career could account for, she tends to move abruptly from country to country, she retired under suspicious circumstances last year—ah!” Sherlock’s on his laptop now—no, wait, _John’s_ laptop—pulling up a website that looks disturbingly classified. “Visitors to the UK must give an address, and she had no reason to lie at the time unless she lies habitually, which is possible, but it’s worth checking…here.” He proudly turns the screen to John. “Kensington. Quite upmarket for a retired diva.”

John considers asking why Sherlock has access to immigration records. He decides no good can come of a question like that. “You’re planning to break into her flat and steal those tapes, aren’t you.”

“Obviously.”

Obviously. “And…am I _helping_ you break into her flat?”

“No. Stay here, but keep your phone nearby. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be a few hours.”

John digests that in silence while Sherlock throws on his coat and dashes off. He checks that his phone is on, then moves over to his chair, lately occupied by a supermodel, and reflects on the life that’s brought him to this pass. Once that gets boring, he turns on the telly.

* * *

Irene walks up to her flat on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday evening to find the door open. Irene is about as likely to leave her door open as she is to become a cop, so this is definitely a break-in.

An inept break-in. Seriously, who just waltzes in and leaves the door open?

She edges inside, hand in her coat pocket on the grip of the gun which, haha, Norton doesn’t know she has. It doesn’t take long to find the man staggering drunkenly around her bedroom. Apparently it’s going to be a more interesting Tuesday than she anticipated. She keeps a hand on the gun, but it doesn’t look like that kind of trouble.

“Excuse me,” she says softly, tipping her head to the side with innocent curiosity that’s only half faked. “I think…you may be lost.”

He spins to face her, limbs flailing everywhere. They’re long limbs, capable of a lot of flailing. Tall guy, dark hair, ridiculous cheekbones. And only pretending to be drunk. He’s not a bad actor—he even put something in his eyes to get that authentic bloodshot effect. Irene’s a better actor, though, and his reaction time is too good for an honest drunk. Still, this guy couldn’t have come cheap. _Oh, Milena, sweetheart, I thought we had something. Are you really this much of a coward?_

“Lost my keys?” asks the fake drunk, like he thinks she’ll know better than he does. This may turn out to be fun.

“Uh huh,” she replies with permissible skepticism. “So…how did you get in?”

“This isn’t my flat,” he announces, glancing around in dismay.

“Right first time. It’s mine.”

He freezes and stares. “…American?”

“Sorry?” she tries. “How about you tell me again how you got in.”

“When I’m drunk,” he explains carefully, “they take away my keys, so. I pick the lock.” And he beams proudly.

Sort of buyable. The kind of guy who’s shitfaced at six o’clock on a Tuesday evening may indeed be the kind of guy who learns to drunkenly pick his own locks. Except that this isn’t his lock, and being able to pick one lock is not the same as being able to pick any lock. On top of that, he’s faking drunk and poking around her bedroom, which, damning. Who the fuck is this guy? And what’s she supposed to do with him?

_But Norton, he followed me home. Can’t I keep him?_

Yeah, that’s a no. In view of which, it’s probably safest to play motherly. “Here, why don’t you sit down? Do you have a phone? Anyone you can call to pick you up?”

He blinks gravely up at her. She wishes she could award him points without blowing the game. “John,” he says.

And that, that’s _it_ , John. Of course, John. Yeah, it’s a wicked common name, but it makes something click. She’s seen this face, she knows those cheekbones. She did her research before she came to London.

John, who keeps a blog. John _Watson_ , property of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. She has _Sherlock Holmes_ on her couch.

Norton is definitely not going to let her keep him and she needs to let go of that idea right now. Plus, Sherlock wouldn’t want to stay and she’d have to chain him up in the basement and she doesn’t have a basement. Also, that would be creepy. “John,” she repeats, carefully not letting herself sound giddy. “Okay. Why don’t you give him a call?”

He pulls out his phone and stabs at it clumsily, but just looks vacant when John answers, pretending to be too drunk to remember what to do next. Irene snags the phone away from him. He wants John to hear her voice? Fine. It won’t do them a lick of good.

“Hi, John?” she says pleasantly.

“…Who is this?”

Wow. Wow, that is the voice of the world’s most suspicious man, right there. “Ah, your friend—tall guy, dark hair?—seems to have accidentally broken into my apartment. He’s pretty drunk, so I thought you might want to come pick him up.”

“Broken—I’m sorry, he’s—did you say _drunk?_ ”

Uh oh. Sounds like someone wasn’t in on the scam. “I’m worried that if I send him out alone, he’ll get lost,” she says, sweetly concerned. “Even more lost.”

“Oh God,” John moans, sounding like Norton’s understudy. “I am so, so sorry. I’ll be right there. What’s the address?”

She tells him. He apologizes a few more times. Sherlock starts tapping out Prokofiev’s Piano Sonata No. 7 on the sofa arm like it isn’t his own damn fault he’s bored.

A drunk shouldn’t have the coordination for Prokofiev. For shame, letting the details slide. How stupid does he think she is?

While they’re waiting for John, they enjoy a wandering pretend drunk conversation about the highlights of London. Sherlock periodically jumps up and staggers around, which makes Irene irrationally nervous. He obviously loves the shit out of London, though; it’s cute. And Irene can see his point—London is pretty awesome. Shame that Sherlock’s presence on her couch means she can’t come back here until he’s dead.

John shows up fairly quickly, so he can’t have been too far away. And he’s so polite! He rings _and_ knocks _and_ apologizes for the trouble. He even does a flattering little double-take when he sees her, but then he gets sidetracked, staring at Sherlock like he’s considering pitching him headlong out of an upper story window. Sherlock beams drunkenly back at him. “John!”

“He was really no trouble,” Irene assures John. Murder would attract the attention of the law, and that is the last thing she needs, no matter how hilarious it would be.

“Right,” John sighs. “Well. Thank you again for putting up with him. Can’t leave him alone for a minute. Come on, you.”

He kneels, pulls Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder, and heaves them both to a standing position. Stronger than he looks, good to know. Sherlock insists on wobbling all the way to the door because he’s a dick like that, and Irene actually has to help John catch him before he does a header into the doorframe for the sake of authenticity. John shoots her a conspiratorial smile and apologizes again before they stagger their way into the hall.

So. The question here is, how long will it take the world’s only consulting detective to come back for another try?

Yikes.

Irene runs to check on the tape—still in the vent where it belongs, thank fuck—but as she straightens up, it dawns on her that she was hovering by the vent throughout Sherlock’s visit. That when he staggered toward it, she always moved to block him. You don’t need to be a genius detective to work out what that means—she might as well have put up a neon sign that said SECRET THING HERE.

God, she feels like an amateur.

Well. The good news is, she doesn’t keep a lot of stuff in this apartment. Seeing as she should probably clear out within the hour, that’s handy.

She calls Norton. (Her husband, Godfrey Norton, and how new and shiny and weird is that?) Sure, she could pack up herself, but that’s no fun. Besides, she needs to hurry and follow the detecting boys, assuming Sherlock didn’t notice the GPS tracker she tucked in his pocket.

Too bad about that tracker, really. She only managed to steal three of them, and she can’t see a way to get this one back. On the other hand, Sherlock freaking Holmes. She needs all the advantages she can get.

Norton finally answers his phone. “Norton, love of my life!” Irene says. “Um, you busy?”

The ensuing silence is long and suspicious. “ _Why?_ ”

“Remember how we were leaving next week?”

A tension-filled lack of response.

“Well, we kind of need to leave right now. Or at least, all my stuff needs to be out of this apartment—flat! I meant flat—right now. We can stay in a cheap hotel or something for a day, I guess. But, um, come help me pack? Buy us plane tickets?”

“Irene. You promised I would have a week to tie up loose ends. You promised not to attract attention. You—”

“Hey, I didn’t _ask_ this guy to come snooping around my place. Oh, and I won’t be here when you get here because I have to trail him.”

“You really don’t.”

“Oh, I really do. I get he’s a detective and everything, but breaking and entering is still not kosher.”

“A detective _broke in?_ ”

“Don’t freak—it was very polite, as home invasion goes. Still. The principle of the thing.”

“Wait. Who’s angry with you right now?”

“A rich person, and rich people are always a pain in the ass. Come on, Norton, we’re in a hurry, here. You can yell at me all you want when we’re on the plane.”

“Which rich people are we talking about? How rich? Are they politically connected? Should we fear for our lives?”

“Yeah…maybe we shouldn’t have this talk over the phone?”

“ _Irene_.”

“Love you! Gotta go, bye.”

* * *

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson live on Baker Street. 221B Baker Street, upstairs—Irene can see them through the window. They’re having a real screaming match, to go by the pacing and the flailing and the accusingly pointed fingers. Must be magic, living with Sherlock.

It’s becoming increasingly clear to Irene that she has to steal something from them. She has to. It’s important for her happiness. She’s not thinking major theft, just a little thing, something to say, _Hey asshole, two can play at this home invasion game_.

She’s not trying it when they’re in there, obviously. She’s good, but no one’s _that_ good. So after a little wander of the neighborhood, she calls up Norton to find out which fleabag hotel they’re staying in for their tragically final night in London.

* * *

She’d forgotten that she and Norton were due for a conversation about her sordid past. He’s not taking it as well as she might’ve liked, but he is taking it better than she’d expected.

“You seduced _Milena Novak?_ That’s why that man broke into your flat? _That’s_ the reason you were chased across the continent? Because you took advantage of some poor, naïve woman in Prague?”

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Irene says, throwing her hands up indignantly. “Trust me, she is _not_ naïve. Or poor, I wouldn’t even have gone there if she’d been poor.”

“That,” says Norton, “is completely mercenary.”

“It isn’t!” Irene insists, offended. “She’s hot. Hot and rich! How’s that different from what everybody else looks for in a partner?”

“The bit where you were making contingency plans to blackmail her from the start, that’s where it all goes pear-shaped. I can’t believe you made pornographic movies _of yourself_ for blackmail purposes.”

“What? Why not? People do it all the time! That’s a _done thing_. It’s smart to be prepared. Anyway, it’s not as bad as the time when my Uncle…um.”

“Your Uncle Um?”

“Can we forget I mentioned that? Because you might meet him someday, and, yeah. Awkward. But he did get pretty rich off it.”

“…Every day I’m a little more grateful for my lack of money.”

“I wouldn’t play _you_ , Norton.”

“Haha.”

“Hey, don’t laugh! There is nothing for you to be laughing about, here.”

“Up until now I was under the impression that you were straight.”

“Don’t put me in a box.”

“Out of curiosity, what’s her type?”

“Milena’s? Oh, quiet, shy, scary smart. And obviously everybody gets hot about the singing, so. Totally doable. What’s with that face? What, what is that?”

“…I was trying to picture you acting shy. And _quiet_.”

“I’m gonna remember that skepticism, buddy.”

Norton’s giving her the look that says he sees right through her bullshit. She hates that look. On the other hand, it is pretty much the reason she married him. “It’s unlike you to blackmail a friend,” he says. “And I assume you were at least friends.”

She sighs and leans back against the wall. The paint crackles. This hotel is such a pit, it’s actually amazing. “Yeah, we were friends.”

Norton gives her the _Well?_ eyebrow.

“I respect that lots of people have legit reasons for not being, you know, out and proud,” Irene tells him. “Fear of death or severe bodily harm. A strong belief that it’s nobody’s business. I even understand fear of the loss of your family’s millions. I mean, if you stay closeted until the bastards are dead and then spend their fortunes on gay rights activism, hey, that’s playing to win and I salute you. But the thing with Milena is…hypocrisy is really fucking annoying. If she wants to stay quiet while her rich and crazy dad rants about burning the queers, that’s her problem. Maybe she’s honestly scared of him, who knows? But what she does not have to do is stand next to him and recommend drawing and quartering before setting people on fire. It’s bullshit, not least because the Czech Republic isn’t remotely like that—it’s just her asshole dad.”

Norton slumps lower on his cot. “I married a con artist activist. That shouldn’t even be _allowed_.”

Irene wouldn’t call herself an activist, it’s just that she’s easily annoyed and prone to dramatic flouncing tantrums. But she doesn’t feel like pointing that out to Norton when he’s quietly deciding she’s awesome. “What can I say? You’re a lucky guy.”

* * *

The rest of the evening goes less smoothly. It’s Irene’s fault for forgetting that Norton has morals and qualms and all that. She never should’ve owned up to the gun, but it’s too late now.

“Check it out,” she says, sounding pleased despite her best efforts. “No idea how old it is, but it’s an actual, honest-to-god single action revolver. You could play Russian Roulette with this thing!”

“I’d feel better,” Norton says, “if I knew where you’d gotten that. Guns are illegal here, unlike the crossfire zone you call home, and theoretically that shouldn’t have been easy to find.”

“You’re gonna be living in that crossfire zone in a minute, so watch yourself. And you say you’d feel better if you knew where I got the gun, but see, hon, I _do_ know where I got the gun, and I’m telling you you wouldn’t feel better at all.”

“Tell me where you got it.”

“Fine. Fine, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Bought it off some strung-out thirteen-year-old with crazy eyes, north London. Not far from this very hotel, in fact.”

“…When you say ‘bought.’”

“Yeah, you know, stole, bought, they work out the same.”

“You stole a gun from a child junkie.”

“Like candy from a baby. Which, when you think about it—”

“You were right. I don’t feel better.”

“Right? That’s what I’m talking about, listen to your wife. Anyway, kids shouldn’t have guns. Especially not if they’re gonna wander around all fucked up like that.”

“At least you didn’t get your hands on explosives.”

“Yeah, well.” She makes a cutting gesture. “I know a guy who knows a guy, but the thing about Guy Number Two is that he’s evil incarnate and I’d really like it kind of a lot if he never knew about me or especially you. Seriously, you should see this guy. Or no, you should definitely _not_ see this guy, he is the scariest fucking thing out there. He’s that kind of ice cold crazy that may actually be a twisty flavor of sane. Sure, he’d set the world on fire just to watch it burn, but only once he’d stocked a lifetime supply of food on a getaway spaceship so he could enjoy the view from the Moon. You know?”

“Not at all.”

“Great, let’s keep it like that.”

Norton looks tired already, which is a shame, because Irene isn’t planning on letting him sleep any time soon. “What are you going to do with that gun?” he asks sadly.

“Hopefully nothing,” Irene says brightly. “And all you have to do is be lookout. Not stressful at all.”

“Until I’m forced to watch my wife being arrested.”

Irene rolls her eyes. “If you’re a good lookout, I won’t _get_ arrested.”

“Irene—”

“It’s no big deal! Trust me.”

He seems depressed about the whole situation, but apparently he does trust her, because he goes along with it.

Well, maybe he trusts her. Or maybe he’s just a sucker. Irene loves it about him either way.

* * *

The good news is, no one can stay uptight on a stakeout, not even Norton, bless his heart. Once he figured out they were actually going to lurk on the roof opposite 221B Baker Street until Sherlock Holmes and John Watson both left, come hell or high water, he got bored, which led to calming down, which led to kicking back and producing a book from somewhere.

The fact that Irene loves stakeouts no matter how boring they are says something bad about her character, and she knows it, but she just can’t make herself care. This one’s turning out especially fun for her, if not for Norton: Sherlock and John have been steadily bickering with occasional breaks for sulking on opposite sides of the living room for three solid hours. It is now approaching midnight and they show no signs of stopping. Best thing ever.

“Oh my God,” Irene whispers, bringing her binoculars into slightly better focus for her latest fifteen minute check. Looks like sulking time. “These guys are _adorable_.”

“You’re making me feel insecure, Irene,” says Norton, propped against a stack of plywood and reading his Ian Rankin book. Totally the picture of insecurity.

“To think I actually had one of them sprawled on my couch. Norton, you didn’t get to hear that _voice_ …”

“You’re a horrible woman,” Norton remarks absently, turning a page.

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective,” Irene murmurs. “He would not last five minutes in Camden.”

“I’m sure he’s already survived five minutes in Camden.”

“New Jersey. Camden, New Jersey. In fact, you don’t even have to go that far. Probably a counter boy at any random Wawa could take him.”

“Are New Jersey criminals a superior breed?”

“Huh? Oh no, hell no. I don’t mean they’d be smarter, I mean he wouldn’t have a chance to work the smarts. People would take one look at his face and sock him in it on the theory that he probably had it coming. Which he totally does. He _cased_ my _place_.”

“…Wawa?”

“Yeah, it’s a convenience store, I’ll take you there, it’s awesome. Not classy, but awesome. Not that we won’t be able to afford better, because obviously we’ll be able to afford whatever the hell we want, but, you know. Sometimes you gotta stick with the classics. The Wawa. Water ice. Diners. Gotta be true to your roots.”

“I’ve seen you successfully pretend to be a Scandinavian music teacher,” Norton mutters like he’s trying to convince himself. “And have I mentioned how many different kinds of illegal most of what you’ve done for the past…oh, fifteen years of your life has been?”

“It’s not illegal unless you get caught.”

“Yes. By which I mean, no, and that’s the most disturbing thing you’ve ever said to me, which is saying quite a bit. You have no respect for the rule of law.”

“Whatever, I married a lawyer, didn’t I? And I love cops!”

“In the way that cats love mice.”

“Oh, hey hey hey, John’s bolted.”

Norton reluctantly sets down his Rankin book and rolls over, stealing the binoculars and peering over the ledge, his body a long warm line beside Irene’s. She grins, because yeah, her life is pretty awesome. “Dr. John Watson?” he asks.

“Right. That guy, I would not mess with,” Irene admits. It only stings a little. “He’s incorruptible. I hate the incorruptible ones. I mean, I could seduce him without hardly trying, but it wouldn’t do us any good.”

Norton heaves his favorite put-upon sigh. “But Sherlock Holmes is corruptible?”

“Babe, he is _begging_ to be corrupted.” Uh oh, that’s a cold glare. “Not that I’m planning to corrupt him!” she clarifies hastily. “Because, um, I’m too old for that.”

“Also married to me.”

“And totally married to you! So there you go.”

Norton rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s adorable, too; it’s kind of ridiculous how adorable he is. “So now we just need Holmes to leave.”

“Yeah.” Irene retrieves the binoculars and turns back to the window. “Shouldn’t take long, because John’s obviously his keeper, and if he’s not around, Sherlock’s basically bound to do something stupid. Like me when you’re not around.”

“Speaking of, remember that you promised me no mayhem.”

“Oh, honey,” she says pityingly. “I promised you I wouldn’t set anything _on fire_. That’s different, that is a 100% completely different thing.”

Norton puts his head down with a muttered, “Oh god,” and Irene feels kind of bad, seeing as she’s not actually plotting mayhem today, but…he’s cute when he’s given up on life?

“There he goes,” Irene says gleefully, elbowing Norton. “Heading for my old place, bet you anything. God, he’s a nut.”

“I don’t want to hear that from _you_.” Norton’s getting really sour about this, poor guy. “And what am I doing while you break into a _detective’s flat_?”

“All you have to do is sit here with the binoculars and text me if anyone does anything crazy like come home early.”

“May I ask why you’re taking that gun? You know no one’s in the flat.”

“It’s in case there’s a landlord—landlady?—who looks threatenable.”

“…That’s horrifying.”

“Why? I’m not shooting anybody, Norton, chill out. It’s not even loaded!”

“It is loaded, I watched you load it.”

“That’s just insurance—it doesn’t count.”

Irene scuttles off while Norton is still banging his head on the roof and trying not to cry. No point having another one of those circular arguments about obeying the law and not threatening people with guns. Well, not right now, anyway.

Irene makes her way to 221B, knocks on the door, and quickly discovers that there is a landlady, but she is _not threatenable_. There goes that plan.

Wow. So Sherlock Holmes lives with the world’s most suspicious man and a grandmotherly lady who looks like she’d cheerfully feed people ground glass if they irritated her. Irene is liking the housebreaking jackass more all the time. She downgrades her theft plans from minor to very minor, and smiles awkwardly at the landlady. If threats won’t work, she’ll try pleas. On the off chance that Sherlock talks to his landlady about cases, she’d better not have an American accent, and it’d be stupid to try any British Isles accents in London, so—tick tick tick—South Africa. That’s a good, distinctive accent, and Irene’s pretty sure she’s more familiar with it than the landlady is. It got burned into her mind one time when a late, unlamented guy tried to stab her and take her purse in Johannesburg. Too bad for him.

“Hello!” Irene says, cheerful and desperate, twisting her vowels, lightening her cadence. “Is Sherlock Holmes in? Does he live here?”

“Oh, are you a client? It’s a bit late, isn’t it? And I just heard him pop out. You could try back tomorrow, or contact him on his website.”

“I don’t suppose I could wait…?”

The landlady smiles kindly, but her eyes suggest she’s thinking about feeding Irene a ground glass pie. “He may not be back for hours, dear. I don’t know how poor John puts up with it. And, to be honest, the flat isn’t fit to wait in—I’d try again tomorrow.”

She gently shuts the door, and Irene sighs. She should’ve figured Sherlock Holmes would have a gatekeeper. Well, she did figure. It’s just that she didn’t _want_ to have to climb up to the window.

She tips her head back, examines said window, and confirms that this is indeed going to suck.

* * *

“She took my skull,” is the first thing Sherlock says, appalled, when John gets back from Sarah’s the next morning.

John bites his lip against a smirk. “Oh?”

“She left a _note_.” Sherlock points at it accusingly. John picks it up and tries to read it with a straight face. This is no easy thing.

_Dear Sherlock (and John, if you’ve forgiven him by now),_

_As much as it’s an honor being hunted down by the world’s only consulting detective, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut and run. FYI, Sherlock, drunks have slower reflexes than that. Also? You broke into my place. That is not cool on so many levels, I felt like I owed it to the world to give you a heads up on how it feels. But I promise I’ll give your skull a good home. Wow, that sounded creepier than I meant it._

_Good job on getting me to practically draw you a map of where I was keeping the tape, though. I didn’t catch what you were doing until after you’d left. Seriously, I’m blushing._

_Tell Milena she can stop freaking out. I saw her little interview yesterday. The “maybe my dad isn’t completely right about everything,” interview. Cute. That was all I wanted from her, so really, I’m very easy to please. I am keeping the tape, though, in case she chickens out again._

_Sorry about the whole smash and grab without a proper introduction stunt. Generally, I try to be less abrupt, but this time, I had to flee the country and everything. I’m sure you understand, and I did leave a link on your website for you to remember me by._

_Good luck with the detecting. By the way, your landlady terrifies me._

_With the deepest respect,_

_Irene Adler-Norton_

“So she’s gone, then,” John says, struggling not to let the grin take over his entire face. “That’s a shame.”

Sherlock hisses like an enraged goose and jumps up to pace the room. At a guess, he’s impressed with this Adler woman and horrified by himself and about to have a fit over the confusion. “Yes,” he snaps. “She’s gone. Quite correct, John, well spotted.”

“Did you tell your client about this?”

Sherlock sneers dismissively. “She claims Adler keeps her promises. No interest in hunting her down at all. Ridiculous.”

“Uh huh. So what’s this link she mentioned?”

“I deleted it.”

“Literally or figuratively?”

“ _Both_.”

“I…see.” John doesn’t particularly care for Sergeant Donovan, as a general rule, but just now he’s fighting the strange urge to run to Scotland Yard and tell her this entire story in loving detail. He’s not sure why.

* * *

“I’m naming him Charlie,” Irene coos, stroking the skull and scaring the flight attendants. It’s a hobby. “After Charles I.”

“Lovely,” Norton murmurs, staring fixedly at his newspaper.

“Maybe I’ll take him along on the next job. My good luck skull.”

Norton stops pretending to read and folds the paper with sharp movements and neurotic care. “You told me,” he says quietly and precisely, checking every word, “that you planned to retire. After this.”

“Nooo,” Irene corrects. “I told you I’d stop doing things that might get me arrested. By which I meant, I’ll be more careful.”

“I thought you planned to return to opera.”

“Yeah, but it’s tough to make a career of the arts these days, you know? Good idea to supplement your income.”

“You’re internationally famous and could easily become rich from singing alone. Don’t pretend this is about the money.”

“…Can it be about the thrills?”

“My god.” Norton is staring straight ahead, eyes blinded by horror. “Why did I marry you?”

“Hey hey,” Irene says, leaning back and idly fondling a pearl bracelet she once stole right out of a fancy store in the Ginza on a bet. “I’m just that hot.”

Norton gives a despairing laugh and begs a passing flight attendant for alcohol.


End file.
